Back in Sweden again.

Thinking about gaps in continuity, about the life that happens in between having time to record it, about the forgetting, and the remembering, and whether there isn't something to be said for not recording, in that trains of thought lead back to the forgotten recesses and create pleasant surprises.

I will always remember the hot boys in the hot air, on their up-turned trolleys outside a supermarket: whiling away the afternoon with shouted commentaries and glances laden with casual interest. But I often forget the alarmingly gravelly voice of the homeless guy outside the bank. The voice that ripped through you as you stood within the over-air-conditioned vestibule, taking out too much money that could easily be his. And this thought leads me on to more memories; the air-conditioning: its metal smell, the chill briskness of interior vs. exterior space, the wall of heat upon exiting.

Maybe the excitement of remembering makes forgetting worthwhile.